An Ordinary Evening in Princeton
by sydedalus
Summary: House and Wilson have an evening so ordinary that they must do something, anything to end the boredom. HW established relationship. Absurdity with one chapter of sexual content. House's POV.
1. That Great Monster, Boredom

**Title: **An Ordinary Evening in Princeton  
**Author:** sy dedalus  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson established  
**Rating:** T, could become M  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Warnings:** Drunkeness, general absurdity, approaches crack!fic, may contain male/male sexual content in future chapters  
**Summary:** House and Wilson have an evening so ordinary that they must do something, anything to end it.  
**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, etc. Title borrowed from Wallace Stevens' poem "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven." No real relation to the poem's content.  
**Note: **I've discovered that during the long days of studying for an exam I'll take in a few months, I need something other than studying to do, which is this. So here is a currently plotless fic that I'm writing for the need of something to do. It may end up jumping to the M rating in some chapters. Special thanks to the people who reviewed House's voice in "The Inside" favorably—you've gotten me writing his voice again. Cheers.

* * *

**That Great Monster, Boredom**

Seven o'clock in the evening is the worst hour of the day. Seven o'clock on a Friday is the worst hour of the week.

He's in his chair. I'm sprawled on the couch. He's read the same paragraph in his book five times. The TiVo is full of shows but I don't want to watch any of them.

We're two relatively healthy people in the prime of our lives, and at seven o'clock on a Friday we have nothing to do.

Nothing we _want_ to do, that is.

Nothing _I _want to do, to be absolutely specific. I haven't polled him yet.

If I don't say something in the next ten minutes, he'll go to the kitchen and start dinner (after he asks me what I want and I give him some sarcastic answer to cover the fact that I don't want anything). He gives in more easily to boredom.

My leg's been quiet today. I have almost the same world of options he does.

Most people our age have spent the past ten or twenty years raising their spawn. Neither of us bothered. We haven't even bothered to replace Steve. Unless he gets it into his head that we need a pet—and I don't think he will—we won't be bothering.

We could have sex. Wild, outrageous, fantastic sex. Except we rarely have that kind of sex. Very rarely. And I don't feel wild or outrageous at the moment. I'm not even in the mood.

We could go to a movie. But then we have to argue about what to see and which show to attend and whether to get a medium popcorn or a large for a dime more. Popcorn'll give me or him or both of us indigestion and then we definitely won't have wild or outrageous sex when we get home.

We could go out to dinner. But I like his cooking better than most restaurants and he's gotten naggish about the way I irritate wait staff. Recipe for a disaster.

If I were alone right now, if he weren't here—staying late at work or out of town—I'd get high. That's the only thing I could stand to do right now. But he's here and I can't do that with him here.

We could get drunk. Really, really wasted. Near blackout-drunk. Then we'd almost certainly have wild, outrageous sex—which in reality would be sloppy and unfinished, but we would remember it as wild and outrageous. We could go to a bar or be reasonable middle-aged men who deplore bar prices and hit a liquor store. We haven't gotten really drunk together in a long time. A few months at least.

"Wilson."

His head snaps up. I've startled him. He blinks twice at me before he shakes off the spell of boredom.

"Wanna get drunk?"

I watch him consider the proposal.

His day was ordinary. No one died, no one made a substantial recovery.

My day was ordinary. I saw several idiots with colds waiting in the clinic while I was reading the new People. Cuddy yelled about something. The people who work for me failed to find an interesting case.

He closes the book and shrugs.

"All right."


	2. That Greater Monster, Planning

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

* * *

**That Greater Monster, Planning**

But immediately he's got questions.

"What do you want to drink?" he asks.

I tell him I don't really care as long as we stick to hard liquor.

He eyes the beer he's been drinking and the one I've been drinking and raises an eyebrow to let me know.

Yeah, yeah, whatever.

"Okay," he shrugs. "Any particular reason why?"

"Liquor is quicker," I quip.

He sniffs and stretches.

"No, I mean, any reason you want to get drunk," he clarifies.

I shrug. "Bored. Got a better idea?"

I watch him consider the same alternatives I've already considered.

"Can't think of anything," he answers.

He leans back in the chair.

"So…wanna go out or pick it up?"

I close my eyes and groan. If I'd known it would be this much trouble, I wouldn't have said anything.

I hear him sigh.

"Okay," he says, "I'm reading your mind."

I open my eyes. He's got two fingers on each temple, massaging, pretending to receive signals. Cute.

"You want…I'm getting a dark liquid…not vodka, gin, or rum…something you like without ice…I see an M…two M's…it's—it's Maker's Mark!"

He gasps. His eyes pop open. "My God, who would have thought!"

He gets my _shut up, I hate you_ glare.

"You gonna pitch in or am I left with the tab as usual?" he asks.

I glare at him again. He knows where my wallet is if he wants cash.

"Staying or coming?"

Both options bore me equally. Inertia says I stay. Impatience says I go.

I sigh as though it's his fault I'm bored—and it is, if he were more entertaining, neither of us would be bored—and begin the process of lifting myself off the couch.

He's up. He grabs his keys.

I realize I'm too bored to goad him into being my biker bitch. The bike's not big enough, anyway, I tell myself, and he nearly tears my flesh off he clings so tight. Pansy.

My leather jacket conforms perfectly to the contours of my upper body. We've been too bored to take off the clothes we wore to work today.

He holds the door open for me, bowing and extending an arm to show me the way out. I reach over and slap his ass, then turn and hold the cane diagonally in front of me so he can't do the same.

He glares and locks the door.

Where would I be without him?

He winks and keeps his front facing mine, opening the outer door with his back to it.

He dashes down the stairs and turns again—then realizes he's acting like a fool in public and straightens up.

I smile and follow him.

Once I fall in step next to him, I slide my left hand into his back pocket, press fingers hard against his butt, and dare him to take it out.


	3. The Global ProBoredom Conspiracy

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Thanks for the reviews! I hope this fic is going somewhere, but it may well be going nowhere. At least it's going there fast.

* * *

**The Global Pro-Boredom Conspiracy**

I'm waiting for him to exact his revenge for the public ass grab. He hasn't done it yet.

Nothing from him in the Friday evening college town traffic. He wouldn't hit the pedestrians no matter how many times I raised their point value. He ignored my astute critique of his and other people's driving.

I'd think he's morose if I didn't know he's planning something.

I hope it's good, though he has no imagination for pranks, and other than the time he filed through my cane, no will for them either. If it's not good, he's getting pranked to put me out of my bored misery.

Or I could grab his ass in public again. He loves that.

I wait near the counter and pick the minors out of the Friday evening crowd. Not too many. Of course, by this time of year most of the freshmen have found someone legal to buy for them. They wouldn't be Ivy Leaguers if they didn't know how to network and con others.

This is horrible. I can't even crack a good joke for the boredom.

I motion to him to hurry up. How long does it take to scoop up a few bottles of liquor?

I study the store while he waits in line. The faces of the legal seem younger. Otherwise, nothing new.

I expect the clerk to comment on the relatively excessive among of liquor he's buying. This clerk's been chatty with the other customers, asking about their plans, agreeing if they bemoan the prices, trying to draw them out if they're quiet. Poor bastard's nearly as bored as I am. I find myself almost grinning in anticipation.

But as soon as he's next in line, some other clerk appears and opens a register.

I can't believe it. The world is conspiring against me.

I tell him so on the way out.

"The world is conspiring against me."

"What else is new?" he remarks.

He's hilarious.

I tell him that.

He promptly becomes unhilarious.

He shifts the brown bag awkwardly while I wait for him to unlock the door. For a moment, I wish he'd drop it.

I wait for the mishandle, the crash, the groan.

Damn. He's got the door open. How unhilarious.

"Why does everything come in thirty-one flavors now? It's not ice cream," I observe as he buckles his seatbelt.

He eyes me until I do the same. Chicken.

"You mean you've never enjoyed the aftertaste of pomegranate vodka?"

He aims for scandalized, barely clears interested.

I sigh.

He rolls his eyes at me. "_I'm_ conspiring against you," he says. "Me and the whole world."

I stick my tongue out at him.

Then we're in traffic again and he's silent.

I begin to loathe the open container law.

I tell him.

"I'm beginning to loathe the open container law."

He sighs and shakes his head.

Nothing.

He doesn't like to talk in heavy traffic.

I lift the lever attached to the side of the seat and push it back as far as it will go.

I stare at the felt ceiling of the car and thump my cane.

I'm going to die of boredom.


	4. Arrival

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Glad everyone is enjoying!

* * *

**Arrival**

_Here lies Gregory House. Died of boredom between 6__th__ Street and Trenton Avenue._

I ask him what he'd say if I died of boredom.

He says nothing. Then indicates to me that's his answer.

Ha ha.

When we stop at red lights I can see the head and shoulders of the tall and the heads only of the short. The bob surreally down the street. They bore me.

"I'm bored!" I groan emphatically.

I've been pushing him and pushing him and finally it happens. He snaps.

"House, I'm going to hurt you if you don't shut up."

My eyebrow jumps.

"That wouldn't be such a bad thing," I say, more to myself than him. "Then I wouldn't be bored."

He chuffs. That's the sound he makes: a chuff.

"How are you going to hurt me?" I ask in a deep, sensuous, suggestive voice.

He hasn't thought it through. I see him reach for methods of inflicting pain.

"I'll beat you with your cane," he grumbles.

I groan again.

"_So_ original."

"I'm trying to drive," he gripes.

"How about something involving a ball-gag," I suggest.

I adopt my best bad falsetto, "Oh, Doctor Jimmy, I've been such a naughty nurse."

I don't think he has the guts for it.

But I've tried it.

Stacy and I—

I've tried it.

Just as well if he doesn't have the guts. I can't maintain the serious façade.

"Ball-gag means you can't talk," he says and tips his head to the side.

He's considering it. Cool.

He's not that kinky. Although….

I wait to see if he'll say anything else.

Nothing.

He's _so boring_ right now. If he didn't give great head and all that other stuff, I'd…

I hate hypothetical situations. They aren't now. They bore me.

He stops the car again and I don't see any bobbing heads and shoulders. What I do see is familiar brick.

_Finally_.

I sit up with the seat and hurry to get out. I don't even need a glass. I'll chug from the bottle.

I twirl the cane, tap it twice, twirl, tap twice, twirl, tap twice, and then _finally_ he's here with the keys.

I breathe down his the collar of his shirt like Darth Vader while he unlocks our door.

"…Jimmy…hurry up…I'm bored…"

He butts me away with his, well, butt and I'm momentarily off balance.

Quickly as I can, I'm beside him again closing the door locking it we won't be leaving unrolling the bag grabbing a bottle by the neck step step step step to the couch down I sit twist the melted red plastic cap and _oh so good_ it burns down my esophagus coating my stomach with false warmth I burp liquor fumes set the bottle aside lean back hands folded behind my head put my feet up until _there_ it hits the brain dizzily dizzily _finally_ _finally_


	5. Jimmy Brando

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

So we're getting to some suggestive sexual content and naughty words in this chapter. It's still T-rated, but non-slashers and the faint-of-heart may want to turn back now.

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**Jimmy Brando**

I can feel his curious stare penetrating the thin patch on top of my head or one of the thoracic vertebrae between my shoulder blades.

"Told you I was bored," I say.

"Never said I didn't believe you," his reply comes from behind me.

I hear him dialing his cell phone and glance backwards.

"I'm getting green peppers and no onions," he tells me. "Speak now or forever hold your peace."

I chuff at him. I don't want any of his pizza. I emphasize my point by sneering and slugging another glug.

He rolls his eyes and begins untucking his shirt. Suddenly I'm interested in his interaction with the teenager taking his order, even more interested in the number of buttons passing through button holes.

I turn so I can watch without cricking my neck. I grip the bottle's neck with one hand and shove the other down my jeans until my thumb catches near a belt loop. I'm grinning stupidly. I don't care.

He notices, pauses his pizza order just long enough to pull a disgusted face, and now that I've made him self-conscious, drifts down the hall with his back to me.

My grin's made of early liquor.

I turn back toward the TV and remove my hand. That was more to goad him than anything else. The rush of blood I felt has already reversed its course to flush my chest and cheeks. But the evening's young and he's still sober.

Boredom isn't enough of a reason for him to drink. I'll have to invent something.

I channel surf, reviewing drinking games. Sports are easiest, but if I can find a Bond movie or something like Star Trek…

I hit ESPN and stop. Perfect. Bottom of the first inning. Yankees. Perfect.

The only downside is that he'll have to find shot glasses.

I wait for him to return. Over the TV, I can hear him finalizing his order down the hall. I make a bet with myself: I drink once if he comes back wearing anything with Magill on it, I drink twice if it's anything golf-related, three times if it's anything Hitchcock related, four times if it's anything fishing related, and not at all if it's plain.

The trouble with betting by myself is that I know too much. There isn't enough chance. Last night he wore the black shirt with "The Birds" on it that makes him look entirely too young and so fuckable I won't let him wear it out of the apartment. Wednesday was the boring beige that's too big for him with The Masters logo on the breast. He says it's comfortable. Maybe one day he won't be able to find it. Then again, he does the laundry. But I have other ways of making it disappear.

I know his wardrobe and I've assigned drinks accordingly. All his favorite Magill shirts he's worn already. He goes through them first. The golf and Hitchcock shirts go next, then the fishing shirts. Of his favorites, he's got a black shirt with "Vertigo" printed on it and another boring beige with a rainbow trout with its parts labeled a la _Grey's Anatomy_. Or he could come out in his undershirt, though that's very unlikely with a pizza on the way—not that I'd mind missing a drink if it meant him lounging in an undershirt.

Come on, Jimmy, dress up for me.

I want to see the Vertigo shirt. It doesn't fit him as well or it'd be as fuckable as The Birds shirt. He never wears black, except for those two shirts. Prefers earth tones or pastels or plain grey. The influence of too many wives on him. Black makes him a bad boy. Like that black thong he's embarrassed to wear. Unless he's drunk.

Objective One for the night: get him drunk enough to coax him into the black thong.

He's told me how much he likes me in black t-shirts and jeans. How he likes the biker jacket. He even bought a pack of navy and black boxer-briefs because the white ones don't match my brooding personality. Maybe I like him in brooding bad boy clothes, too. He's Marlon Brando in _The Wild One_ when he wears a black t-shirt or a white undershirt with jeans. (James Dean's too obvious, too boring, too attainable.) In jeans with his shirt off he's Stanley in _A Streetcar Named Desire_.

I force myself to stop thinking and watch the baseball game. More of this and there'll be no waiting for the black thong. No black thong either.

I want a drink.

_Jiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmmmmy!_

"What're we watching?"

He heard my call. And he's in his fuck-me clothes: the Vertigo shirt, his best jeans.

Oh yeah. We're getting laid tonight.

I take my three gulps for the Hitchcock shirt while he stares at me.

"Going to let me catch up?" he asks with a playfully cocked eyebrow.

If he'd just slip a thumb through a belt loop, shift his weight to one side, poke out his lower lip in a pout…

I pretend I'm short of breath from the liquor. It's too early to let him know how I appreciative I am. Would interfere with his training.

"Grab some shot glasses," I tell him.

I watch all six feet of him turn for the kitchen, enjoying most the area where black cotton meets blue denim.

I'm grateful for the patience liquor has given me. My mouth settles of its own accord into a languid smile as I slouch against the leather and wait for him to return.


	6. Batter Up

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

This chapter pushes the edge of the T rating I think. The next chapter is rated M. For those who don't read M-rated material, you'll be able to skip it because you'll know by the end of this chapter what's going to happen. The chapter following the next one will be back to the T rating. I don't know if I'm supposed to change the fic's rating to M for one M-rated chapter or not. In any case, please consider this a warning. I'll add another to the top of the next chapter.

And because you'll want to beat me when you reach the end of this chapter, I promise the next chapter will be up before 7 p.m. EST.

* * *

**Batter Up**

It's a hitter's game today, already 4-3 in the second inning, so we'll make rules according to pitches. Can't play a drinking game long with straight liquor and still stay conscious. In fact, he's got a cut-off point. It's been a full day. He's the only one fit to bat, we both know. And I'm an excellent catcher.

"House."

He's staring at me like he's about to wave a hand between my line of sight and the TV to ascertain my level of awareness. Which, to be fair, has gone pleasantly fuzzy around the edges already.

I blink at him.

"Rules?" he asks.

He's got the shot glasses and his own bottle. He's already had two quick shots to catch up.

I tell him the rules.

"When the other team's pitcher strikes out a Yankee hitter, we drink. When the Yankee pitcher walks the other team's batter, we drink."

"That's it?"

"Keepin it simple. Stupid."

He tries to look insulted. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

I narrow my eyes, thin my lips. "I think it'll get me exactly where I want to go."

He responds with the same look until he's a parody of himself and me and we're laughing.

"Third strike!"

We clink glasses and shoot, then re-pour.

I think it was me who saw the strike. If it was, I'm slurring a little already, tripped over that 's' in strike. He has a glass of water he sips from occasionally. 'Until the pizza arrives,' he said. Just like him to soak up perfectly good alcohol with food. Of course, he'll be the batter. All I have to do is stay conscious.

Except there's a problem. Him next to me, in those clothes—I can't concentrate on the game.

I turn my head to him, watch him watch the game, watch him notice me, then lean in and open my mouth slightly to show him I want a kiss.

He obliges. Chastely. I press him. To let him know I have a problem.

"You're frisky," he comments when we part.

I know I'm wearing that 'fuck me' look of lust that on anyone but me and the person I want is ridiculous. I don't care.

I rub my crotch left handed, my right arm around the top of the cushion, hand draped toward his neck.

His eyes dart from my hand on my crotch to the thumb grazing his cheek and back to me. I see his realization, then his eyes softening as he leans in to me this time to kiss.

Quick kiss. Then he stands, the hand he'd put around my neck trailing away. He doesn't have to look back. He knows I'll follow.

We don't talk. No need.

I leave my shirt in the hall and unfasten my jeans so I can rub through the underwear, closer, left-handed, using the right against the wall for steadiness.

He's waiting for me. He knows it's the clothes that did it. I pause against the door frame, rubbing, watching him stand there looking so fuckable. I don't get any more serious.

He laughs. I must look too serious. I laugh too.

Him, me, both of us have had just the right amount of liquor. Nothing will distract us.

I start toward him, collide lightly, kiss him, and tug his shirt tail upward. He gets it, and the shirt comes off while I push my jeans past my hips, sit on the bed, and finish pushing them off. Then the underwear.

Sometimes I'm awkward in my flesh. Too scarred, flabby in places, aging. But not now.

I lie down in the middle of the bed, stroke some, and watch him. He knows what I want. Gets out of his clothes, his own flesh dangling soft and that doesn't matter. I'm the pinch hitter. He knows he's catching.

I didn't think I'd be batting today. But I am. No questions.

The obligatory condom. We know too much. I don't want _E. coli_ invading my urethra.

I raise an eyebrow. Is he ready for this?

He doesn't have to think about it. "Be right back," he says.

The bathroom door closes. I lie on my back, watching the ceiling darken, stroke some. I'm a little drunk. I don't mind the wait.

I don't think about what he's doing. It's not sexy except in what it'll enable us to do. I close my eyes and anticipate.

It's been over a week since I came up to bat. Nearly two weeks. The conditions have to be just right. They are now. He's quick. He'll be out in a few minutes, ready to go. He knows the right conditions can pass like a summer rain storm.

I stroke. The same stroke since I was twelve. No thinking, just the feeling.

I hear a flush, feel sexiness wash over me. He's on his way.


	7. I Like My Body When It Is With Your

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

**This chapter is rated M for sexual content.** Please do not read it if you are underage or do not like sexual content. It's fairly explicit. I've read (and written) much more explicit content than this, and I suppose you have to know the rudiments of anal intercourse to follow along, but it's still fairly explicit. Please take this as fair warning about the chapter's content.

The next chapter will be rated T. You can skip this chapter. The obvious happens in it. If I should change the rating of this fic from T to M because of this one chapter, let me know.

The title of this chapter comes from the first line of a very erotic and lovely poem by e.e. cummings, which is reproduced below. (All spelling, punctuation, and word order errors in it belong to cummings.)

* * *

_i like my body when it is with your  
body. It is so quite new a thing.  
Muscles better and nerves more.  
i like your body. i like what it does,  
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine  
of your body and its bones,and the trembling  
-firm-smooth ness and which i will  
again and again and again  
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,  
i like,slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz  
of your electric fur,and what-is-it comes  
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,_

_and possibly i like the thrill_

_of under me you quite so new_

-e.e. cummings, "i like my body when it is with your", reproduced from _AnOther E.E. Cummings_

**I Like My Body When It Is With Your**

I watch the door open. Watch him emerge, young, pointing forward, walking toward me.

I slide the latex barrier on, its lube a little chilly mixing with my own. He climbs on the bed, sits on his knees, waits. I lube generously, pass it to him, let him add what he wants.

Then he hovers over me, straddles, his eyes watching for my reaction, and carefully works his way down.

He's always a tight fit. We don't do this often enough for it to be otherwise. I know I'm not as tight a fit any more. But that's not here. Here, he's placed a hand on my chest and one behind him on the left to steady himself.

I stay motionless, watching him gasp and shudder, his eyes closed, his hand curling on my chest, the exquisite pleasure he's giving himself that I know so well. He doesn't get it as often. He's more tender, feels it more fully. I feel him tighten and relax, tighten and relax, tighten, shudder, stop, his nails biting my chest, start again.

His head tilts back. He started slow to get used to it. He's reaching the end of the slow rhythm, digging deep, deep as he can like this, till there's nothing but his body touching mine.

He raises himself up, reaches for the lube. I adjust the condom. I know what he'll do next. We both know this is for him right now and as fast as he goes, I won't finish. He can't finish like this either, on bottom or on top. This is for him to control and enjoy, that other good part of sex.

I stay as motionless as possible, moving only as he moves to keep him in position. This is his fuck. Mine's next.

Playful wag, he wipes the extra on my chest. Astroglide's so slick, he makes three passes to dry his hand. He smiles mischievously.

I hold myself still while he lets himself down again. Then he bends forward as far as he can, both hands on the bed next to my chest, and starts fast and shallow.

More than once he has to stop and reposition. With an angle like this, we can't stay together long.

I watch his face tighten, enjoy his harsh breaths and moans. He only moans in this position. In the next one, he'll gasp and pant and grunt cries, but he only moans when he teases the tight ring of muscle till it spasms.

I do my best to stay hard for him, it's difficult when I'm not moving. Then I feel him going, beginning, and he pushes until it's in swing, then stops dead, head back, breath held, squeezing tight against me.

All the tight trembling shaking sweet electricity, all split through him. Usually it's him in this position, watching me trembling shaking with that other kind of orgasm. I enjoy the view: his head thrown back, strands of hair sticking in sweat, Adam's apple bobbing, chest heaving, still in the moment of feeling, then in motion, his arms, the little pudge of his stomach, his erect penis weeping, testicles half-crushed against my abdomen. I don't have to say he's beautiful. He knows it.

It's not as good as the real thing for me, what he's just done, but it feels good in a different way. All those nerve endings firing at once, the clenching of muscle, the sense of fullness and the overwhelming need to push against it, working himself up at that fast pace. I know how good it is.

He comes down, rocks gently to soothe the need for more sensation, and after he's cooled some, I move my hips for the first time. He gasps, he didn't expect it, and breathes into the good feeling.

He stops me, raises again for more lube. It's not possible to have enough lube.

Then he meets my eyes and I push to meet him, not too rough, the tissue is delicate, his more than mine. We find a rhythm. Gentle. Slow. Eyes together. I get hard again, breathe deeply in, pace myself. This isn't the finish.

He wants it a little faster, so we meet a little faster. My control begins to slip. I'm enjoying it, eyes closed, thrusting up as best I can with no leverage.

Then I can't stand it any longer. We have to switch positions. I have to fuck him and end it.

I put a hand on his chest to let him know. He's off quickly and I'm up and he takes my place in the center, on his knees, spread as wide as he can. I get to my knees, in position, and squeeze on more lube. I get to do this so rarely. I'm excited and ready and he's waiting.

I don't leave him waiting.

He's open now and I can shove in quickly. I grab his hips and begin. The liquor's blurred my leg, I have a little more time than I would without it. I start fast because I want to feel fast. I hear myself, him, panting, then his breathing stops and I feel his muscles tightening again. He wants another. He holds his breath and pants in like he does when he's working his way to a regular come.

I try to hold out for him. I'm tiring. I don't get to do this often enough to be in shape for it. A stitch builds in my side and I'm getting too close to coming myself. I stop, I have to, and breathe and shove in deep, out slowly, in deep, while I catch my breath. I feel him waiting. I want to give him another. I'm in control again and I withdraw to add more lube, then I'm ready.

I give it to him fast, hard as I can, and feel him trying. I'm paced this time, not as frantic. I keep myself in deep enough that I'm not passing the head through that tight ring. It'd be too much for me. At this angle, I'm not in danger. I just have to be athletic enough to get him there.

I feel him trying, trying, his body tight beneath mine, his fists full of sheet, then he's there, panting, muscles clenched around me. I slow, feel him feeling it. I know it's good. I look forward to my turn later tonight or in the morning.

He lets out the shuddering breath that lets me know he's done. I reposition while he gets his breath back, nudge him forward. He understands. I'm going to make him come now and come myself.

We slide forward till he's pressed against the headboard. We've stained and stickied one spot about six inches in diameter so thoroughly it might never be clean again.

I pour on lube, rub my hand across his back, who's laughing now?, and wrap an arm around his chest. I'm in. I go shallow at this angle, too hard a hit on his prostate and it hurts, I know, and start slowly. I'm building both of us up.

He writhes. This is the only time he writhes. I'm serious. I press my chest against his back and wrap my other hand around his hips. He's already wet the spot. I get my hand damp with him and slide it down till I'm holding him through the ring of my index finger and thumb with my other fingers cradling his delicate scrotum.

If I were dexterous enough to control the fuck, keep my balance, _and _jerk him off, I would, but it's enough to stay balanced and controlled. He can jerk me, took him a month to match his hips to his hand, but he can do it, and he does sometimes. Best I can do is hold on to him. When it's me doing him, he knows he has to be the one to hold us steady, and he does, hands gripping the top of the headboard.

I keep him going slowly by keeping myself so shallow I don't touch him often. Too much and it hurts. Too little, like this, and his body begins to beg for it. I hear myself panting into his shoulder. I kiss him, lick the salt on his flesh. He's nearing a whimper. I smile and begin to go deeper, just a little deeper, to rub him gently. He gasps at every hit.

He's too close. I back off, more shallow, so I can catch up. I fuck fast, my head in the tight canal of his muscle, and I'm starting to shake, I feel it coming on.

Now we're even again and I slow and push deeper, then develop the rhythm that works best for both of us: shallow, fast thrusts for me followed by a few slow, deeper thrusts for him. Together we build until we're both shaking. Suddenly his right hand shoots down to stroke his head fast and I feel his body come, the pulse of him shooting against my left index finger ringed around him, his balls contract and shoot, contract and shoot, him breathing in time. I've stopped inside him to feel him finish.

When he's done, I smear clear white from the back of my hand across the headboard as I grip him around the stomach and begin my final rut. I don't need long, even against his relaxed muscles. Shallow and fast, holding him against me, my hands slip to his hips and I'm losing control. I'm close, I'm leaning back from him, my toes curled, shaking, teeth gritted, almost there, so close, and then I have it and I fuck him free once twice and I'm there, I push in deep, all the way, shudder, gone.

I love him with my body, the best way I know how.

When I'm done, I grasp the condom and pull myself out, kissing his sweaty back, thankful and grateful.

I collapse, unfold my knees, I'm panting slowly, pull the condom off, and he collapses beside me. We're breathing, trembling heaps, smiling at each other between intervals of blank-faced muscle relaxation.

When I can, I kiss him to thank him for this. He knows what I mean.

Since he came first and it wasn't him doing the work at the end, he recovers more quickly than I do. Gets up to fetch a dirty towel to wipe us and the headboard off. I offer him the condom so I won't leave it on the bed and let it make a wet spot. Though both sets of our legs have made sweaty wet spots.

He returns, wiping himself, lets me wipe up, then wipes his jizz off the headboard. It's gotten too dark in the room to see the many streaks we've left rolling from the spot, but I know they're there. I smile contentedly at them.

He tosses the towel away and lies down facing me. I put a hand on his arm, he puts his hand on mine. We don't have to say anything.

We're still. Time is unimportant.

Once I can breathe again, I sit up.

"Shower?" I suggest.

He agrees, gets to his feet. I'm too unsteady by myself. I need ten minutes on my back before I can move vertically without worrying about falling. Even with the cane. It's the only time I let him support me. We don't speak of it.

Together we get to the bathroom. I sit on the ottoman while he turns the tap on. The cool tiles against my back make me shiver. I close my eyes. I've never felt better in my life.

By the time he's got the temperature right, I'm steady on my own. He lets me go first. I just want a rinse to get rid of the sweat and lube and semen. I'm steady enough but still shaky, so I rinse quickly and step out. I thank him for the towel he offers me, dry my butt first so I can sit, and towel off while I watch him through the semi-transparent curtain.

I could do this for the rest of my life.


	8. Shenanigans

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

**Shenanigans**

He towels himself dry and we go together back to the bedroom. I'm not as steady as I thought. But he's with me.

I find a clean shirt and pajama pants to sleep in and sit down to put them on. He gathers his t-shirt and jeans. I see him going for his underwear and remember the black thong.

"Wilson."

He stops and looks at me.

"Remember what I got you for your birthday?"

I watch him remember. I can barely make out his expression. It's getting dark in this room.

"Put it on," I instruct. "For later."

I sense him blushing.

He chuffs. "Later? You trying to kill me, House?" But I hear him smiling too as he speaks.

I smirk myself.

I sense his reluctance, but after three shots of bourbon and sex, he's drunk enough. I see him eying his dresser, then eying me. I roll my eyes. He's _such _a puritan.

"Gimme a second," I say and finish dressing.

Then I get up to leave the room to the little diva can get dressed.

He fetched my cane from the living room, probably when he went to get the towel, and he gives it to me as I pass him. Good thing, too. I need it.

I settle on the couch, put my feet up. Sit back. Relax. Imagine him slipping into the thong. Smile.

It's a good life sometimes. Our drinks are ready for us. The game's in the fourth inning now, 7-6. Yankees at bat.

"Hurry up," I call. "Full count."

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," he whines.

And to my surprise, he is, pulling the t-shirt over his head, then pausing to pick up the shirt I left in the hall and going back to toss it in the bedroom. Nothing would ever get clean around here if not for him. Then again, it's his fault I left that shirt in the hall.

He's sexy on an aesthetic level when he returns. It's too soon, my blood's too relaxed. He circles the couch, settles on my left. Where I like him to be.

But then stupid Yankee hitter actually hits the ball.

"Aww," I grumble. I'm thirsty.

He pats my leg, smiles patronizingly. "There's always next time."

I sneer at him. "How's the thong? Riding up your asscrack already?"

He narrows eyes at me. "I can take it off just as easily as I put it on."

I snort. "I bet not."

The image of him having to dig the stringed back out amuses me considerably.

He sneers for effect and turns back to the game.

Suddenly I've had enough of the game. I raise my shot glass.

"Gotta do something bad after something so good," I tell him.

Oh God. I just said that? And I meant it too. Oh God.

I put on my best drunken grin. Blame it on the liquor.

But he's seen past me and now he's amused.

He hoists his glass. "To your utter failure at suavity."

I want to knock that stupid grin off his face, but the best I can come up with is a muttered mock of his sentence.

I down my shot without clinking glasses. I won't make it official.

"Hey," he complains.

I give him my innocent 'what?' face.

He eyes me. "May you never grow old, House," he says and drinks.

Almost at the same moment—

"Strike three!"

He groans as I refill the glasses. Revenge is sweet. Especially when it comes at the Yankees' expense.

We drink, slam the glasses down. I refill again.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it—he hates doing shots so quickly—and chases with water. The belch he lets out in my face earns him an elbow in the ribs. We grin like idiots at each other. What's he turning me into?

A knock on the door startles him. So he did forget about the pizza. I'd been wondering… I didn't forget. I had my fingers crossed it'd show up while he was in the shower. But that would have been only thirty minutes after he ordered it. They're not that fast on a Friday.

He remembers and groans, then shoots me a glare as though I planned this. I smile wickedly at him so he'll know just how happy I'll be to watch him stumble toward the door.

And he does. Stumble. Those two shots hit me almost simultaneously right before he bumps into the end of the couch and stumbles trying to catch himself.

He glares at me again, a drunken, stupid glare. My wicked laughing smile must be as drunken and stupid, but I don't care.

Money can't buy this much fun.


	9. Things I Don't Remember

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

House is silly.

* * *

**Things I Don't Remember**

He stumbles back to the couch with the pizza box, nearly dropping it a dozen times, once for every foot of space between here and the door.

He calls shenanigans on me, refuses to play the game while he eats. Fine with me, whole point was to get him drunk and he's there.

I grin at him. He can't hold his liquor properly anymore. It's funny, the way he ssssshhh ssssshhh ssssshhh sssshhhhuuuuuhhs over shenanigans.

And anyway, I'm not too picky now. I could use a break from shots. I want a round two. Even if I don't remember it tomorrow, he won't do it unless I'm at least semi-conscious.

So I drink slowly from the shot glass while he chomps his first piece of veggie and meat-laden pizza. (He never gets enough cheese.) I'd get up to get the right glass, but I'm not dumb enough to do that. Not with my leg, not with seven or eight ounces of straight liquor in me in under an hour. No. Not this cripple.

He eats like he's hungry. Sure, maybe he is. Liquor kills my appetite more than Vicodin. That's saying a lot. If I weren't drunk, I'd have to join him eating or I'd get disgusted and want to puke. That's how it goes. I eat, then I don't mind and don't feel like puking. Food replaces nausea, eats it up so to speak. Liquor makes me not care about it. Either way, I don't have to steal any of his food right now. It's funny, he thinks I do it just to annoy him.

Lots of what we do is funny. Then there are some things we won't do. Him it is mostly. I'd be willing to try at least once. All the invented sexual things no one does anymore, not when we know too much about how disease is transmitted. No rimming. That's the beginning. After that, it's no far cry to feltching. But he's not even interested in snowballing. Neither am I, really. Done it before, could live without doing it again. Wouldn't mind doing it again either. He'd insist on snowballing me. I'd prefer the other way around. As though snowballing's that adventurous. We wouldn't even manage a proper dirty Sanchez.

What's the point?

That's always his question. Isn't the point of those things to give adolescents something to feel giddy about? If we don't like it, why do it? If we do like it, snowballing for instance, what difference does it make if it's got a name?

Not much, I always concede.

But doesn't the danger thrill? Just a little?

No. Not to him.

Not to him. To go biking with me. Get his own bike. Still disapproves when he thinks I'm taking more pills than I should. Shakes his head without moving it an inch. It's all in the eyes, his expressions. That's where he says what he really means.

But what the hell, I love him anyway. It's a funny word, that one. If I had a better one I'd use it. But I guess it works.

Takes me a while, ha, he's been watching me too.

"What're you starin' at?" he asks through a slice of pizza.

"You."

I grin. I'm drunker than I thought. Saying something like that.

He laughs softly with pizza in his mouth like he's just discovered something he knew was there all along.

"What?"

I'm curious. I want to know. I suspect it has to do with me.

He shakes his head, grinning around the pizza.

Yeah, it was usually about me when Stacy looked like that. It's not much different. A little. Sort of. Cause he's a guy. But mostly it's the same.

"God, House, it's going to be one of those nights, isn't it?" he asks when he's swallowed all that pizza.

I grin. Yeah, it probably is going to be one of those nights.


	10. Lightweights

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

I think this is the last regular chapter. I'll write at least one more as an epilogue to wrap a few things up, but I think this is the end. That is, I think it's gotten where it needed to go. Thanks for coming on the ride with me!

* * *

**Lightweights**

I'm so warm and comfortable. Couch, him, closeness, TV, drinks. Everything is good, you know?, really good.

"How many points did they score?"

His face is red, dopey, close to mine. He's sloshed. What a lightweight.

"Runs, not points."

My bottle's been empty. I'm drinking out of his. It's almost empty. We've got another. It's good. But I'm not gonna be the one getting up to fetch it.

"How many runs?"

"You can't read the screen?"

I'd gesture but he knows where the screen is. Too comfy. Not moving.

"It's in commercial."

I snort. My lips join in the snort. Then there's spittle under my lip. That's okay.

"I'm supposed to _remember_?"

He laughs. I've been laughing. None of this is funny, but something was funny and we're laughing.

"You always do."

But I don't this time.

"Well, I don't this time."

Did I say that out loud or just think it?

"Umph," he sounds like he's falling over, "it's back."

"Yeah."

I don't know why I'm laughing but something's really funny.

"Who are they playing?"

"The Yankees."

We burst into roaring laughs. He's so stupid. Me, I'm just wasted.

"I mean, who are the Yankees playing?"

"That—orange team."

I fling my wrist toward the TV. Seriously, can't he read or see or whatever?

"Yeah, but what's that team?"

"Does it matter?"

"I wanna know."

"K, who wears orange?" I bug my eyes out at him. "Duuuuuh, the Orioles?"

"No, they wear black, right? The Giants wear orange."

"Around the collar, on the letters, yeah, that's the only place."

"The only place what?"

"The Giants wear orange."

He laughs, then stops abruptly. His face is blank and kinda confused.

"Wait. The Giants a football team."

"Duh. Baseball too. Oh, walk, he walked him!"

"But that was the Yankees' pitcher. Wait. What're the rules again?"

"Drink your drink."

He tries to glare at me but just looks drunk. We drink. I pour more but it stops not even half way through his glass.

"Uh oh."

I laugh and sort of fall into him when I try to sit back. He pushes me. But I'm comfy.

"Hey! Hey!"

Then we're kissing somehow.

Then we're going down the hall to bed again and I'm aching in the leg and the dick.

I can't keep up with him.

He seems to know it. He's crooking his finger sexily _come hither._

I'm trying to walk to him but I'm not going anywhere. Just sliding or something.

I can see him sticking through his underpants and feel me sticking through too but I can't stay hard.

I try, get it back with my hand but he's farther away now than he was a second ago and I'm going soft again.

He sees it.

He says he's not going to wait for me.

He goes.

He's gone.

He pushes me from nowhere.

The room blurs when he does. Someone makes a dumb 'huh?' noise. I think that's me making the noise.

"You fell asleep on me."

I glare at him. I don't remember that. I don't know how we got on the couch either or why the lights are on when it was just dark.

"Did not."

I maintain innocence till proven guilty. Maybe maintain innocence then too.

"Did."

He spits the word at me but his face is red and lax and swimming.

"Liar."

"Hey."

"Hay is for horses."

His drunk glare…not reproachful…is that the word I want?

…

He groans.

I sort of snap up. Where'd I go just now?

He leans against me, tries to put his head on my shoulder.

"House, why'd you get me so drunk?"

His head's sliding down to my lap.

I laugh.

"Cause it's funny."

He groans again. His head's in my lap and I can feel his larynx vibrate against my left thigh.

"Gonna be so sick in the morning," he grumbles.

I hear him falling asleep. I laugh.

Then I remember something.

His groan turns into a snore before I can say it but I say it anyway.

"It's better than being bored."

Yeah…better than….bored….


	11. Boredom's Return

Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.

Okay, _this _is the end. Not that previous chapter. Hope it works and apologies to the squeamish.

* * *

**Consequences / Boredom's Return**

I'm awake, didn't know I was asleep.

Horrible retching noises from the bathroom down the hall. Dry heaves. Makes my stomach twist. Ugh. I want to shout at him, _puke something, it'll feel better!_ Would make me feel better.

I feel like puking's a damn good idea, but I don't wanna. Still really comfy, if he would just quit those awful heaves and coughs and pants and groans…

How many times I've been there. I'm not drunk enough to forget now. Add up all the times I've been there. Useless stomach turning.

My skin crawls.

I smell it too. It's not a smell that's hard to recognize. Probably woke himself up puking. I'd look for the splatter but I'm really not interested.

I close my eyes. Want to close my ears too.

Oh, for the love of—puke something!

I must've said it out loud, cause he calls back, "Think I'm not trying?"

"Not by the sound of it," I call back.

More of that awful damn noise.

I wince. Doesn't get grosser than this. Not even the stink of rotting flesh or the foul-smelling watery diarrhea diagnostic of some food poisonings. I can lick someone else's puke, but _this_…

_Finish already!_

Guess I said that out loud too cause a loud, frustrated groan and weak coughs follow it.

"Drink from the tap," I call. "And bring a bucket."

I'm not sure we have a bucket. But if we do, he'll know where it is.

"You're so supportive," he calls breathlessly. "I might think you give a damn."

I hear the tap. Thank God. No more of that horrendous gagging.

Bile shoots up my throat. I swallow. I'm not him.

I do have to pee, though. I'm not getting up from this couch. Two empty bottles in arm's reach…

Feels so good, I can't stop a moan. Tilt my head back, eyes closed. Feels so good.

"That's disgusting."

Open my eyes. Don't move my head. He's pale, found that bucket, standing behind the couch sort of leaning over me.

Don't care. Squeeze the last bit out, close my eyes, come on, come on, _there_.

Blink at him. He hasn't moved.

"You're one to talk," I say.

The scent of urine replaces that of bourbon puke, which I've located maybe a foot or two to my right.

He glances at the exact spot I'd picked based on the wafting of the smell. Eww.

"Didn't do it intentionally," he says. _Unlike you_, his eyes add.

Then he looks ready to puke again. I vow that if he pukes on me I will exact swift and lingering revenge.

He breathes heavily for a moment, then the look is gone. He's just glaring tiredly at me.

"I'm going to bed."

"Gonna curl up with the bucket."

"It's your fault."

"Never said it wasn't."

"All this because you were bored."

"Got laid, didn't you?"

"Didn't need to get drunk for that."

I shrug. Can't argue there.

"Next time you're bored, let's just rent a movie or give each other paper cuts or something."

I blink up at him. He woke me somewhere between drunk and hungover. Still too comfy to move, not drunk enough to think everything's funny.

If he's expecting an answer from me… Well. I blink. That's his answer.

His head disappears. I track him peripherally to the kitchen. Getting more water knowing him.

I don't wanna, but I make myself lean forward to put the bottle on the table. Room's gonna stink of piss if I don't cap it but I don't see the cap and piss smell is better than puke smell.

I close my eyes. Just fine sleeping like this, sitting up, lights on, TV on. Not the first time, won't be the last.

I'm not bored. And because of that, I have no regrets. Even the headache I'm gonna have and the ways he'll make me suffer with it. Don't care. Just hope I can sleep through the pukes now he's reminded me how tortuous they are.

I hear him marching toward the bedroom. Got the bucket I hope.

"Yeah, I do, shut up."

Said that out loud too I guess.

"Goodnight House."

"'Night Wilson."

No, wouldn't want to sleep next to him right now.

Feel myself sinking, falling, so comfy, so comfy, smile a little, know I'll sleep hours and hours, make it up to him tomorrow, no regrets.

Then I remember the thong.

Damn.

_Damn_.

Okay, one regret.

I'll make it up to him tomorrow in a big way. Tell him instead of a movie, the thong.

Yeah. That thong. Tomorrow. Make it up to him. Make it up huge. Promise I will.

Cause I know I'll be bored again soon.

END


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